Low life

In writing

Jeffrey Bernard

Ibet there's not many of you nice people who can provoke a personalised, dedicated, first and only edition of a poem, but I managed just that last week after I'd been rude to that exceptionally gifted lady, Fran Landesman. Here's what I found waiting for me in the pub the morninl after the night before.

For Jeff.

With a little help from Dorothy Parker.

With the crown of thorns I wear Why do I need a prick like you If you want to disappear It isn't going to spoil the view.

I've been put down by the best And crucified by experts dear And I really do not need A friend like you to bend my ear.

You claim that generosity Is something that I lack May I suggest you've had from me Much more than you gave back.

So don't think I'll mope and mourn Because you tell me that we're through With the crown of thorns 1 wear 1 sure don't need a prick like you.

Yours truly, Fran Landesman.

Yes, I've had some interesting correspondence in my time and Fran's poem got me dipping into my agony files. Here's a nice one from Mike Molloy in answer to my advert in the New Statesman six years ago.

Dear Mr Bernard, I read with interest your letter asking for information as to your behaviour and whereabouts between the years 1960 and 1974. On a certain evening in September 1969, you rang my mother to inform her that you were going to murder her only son. If you would like further information, I can put you in touch with many people who have enjoyed similar bizarre experiences in your company.

Yours sincerely, Michael Molloy (Editor).

For one-liners, though, you can't beat Miles Kington and Mimi. When Miles was on Punch he wrote to me:

Dear Jeff, Are you going to write the fucking article or aren't you?

Yours, Miles.

Mimi was a delightful call girl who used to give me the leg-over, gratis. At the end of this arrangement she left me a note in the Yorkminster: Fuck you. Tu n'es qu'un vide et use.

But, of course, the best letters are written by women scribbling under the influence of Cosmopolitan magazine, Spare Rib and the Guardian. Here are a few strange excerpts. ... So that's why I wanted to go and I hope you understand a bit. At the risk of sounding sickly I think we might be quite good friends sometime in the future. Meanwhile I think you should cut words like 'should' 'ought' and 'expect', particularly with reference to yourself, right out of your vocabulary ... It was delightful to see you the other day. I hadn't realised quite how much our rows meant to me. I'd like to scream at you now. Instead I shall simply wish you the best of luck ... I feel a lot of compassion for you but you have to help yourself now. Please try and start living, running to the next bar won't solve anything ... Please remember to take your insulin and try to stick to beer ... I phoned you but your phone was cut off. I can't find you in pubs and I even looked in the Middlesex Hospital but you weren't there either. I'm getting desperate. Everybody here seems to have a serious perspective problem and if I don't get some sensible conversation soon I shall scream. By the way I'm cured. Of depression I mean. And predictably, everybody hates it. But I think you'll be the one person who will like me better ... You have a bed but I am not, repeat not, going to spend mornings pacing up and down while you agonise over the typewriter and you will not discuss your Spectator column with me until after you've written it .. .